Barack, we go back. Way before either one of us even realized it.
“Be yourself,” that’s the mantra. But for most of my life, I haven’t known who I am. I lived in five states and two countries before I was 18. When I went to elementary school in Atlanta, I was frequently teased for my dark skin. As I was learning about the Civil Rights Movement in social studies class, I was told that I’m somehow lesser than everyone else. When I moved to Washington State, I heard insults of all kinds about my South Asian descent – in classrooms, malls, and auditoriums. When I arrived in India to finish high school, I was outcasted for being too “black” or too American because I listened to hip-hop and wore baggy jeans with a backwards hat.
I thought I was just a skinny kid with a funny name. Morgan Siva, my legal first name and abbreviated last name. Yet everywhere I went, there seemed to be something wrong with me.
When I went to Penn State, I started to go by Mohan Sivaloganathan, assuming the traditional nickname from my family and my full last name. I hoped to finally establish my identity. Be myself.
I graduated in 2004, and at my first job at Procter & Gamble, I wasn’t the changemaker or breath of fresh air, but the outsider once again. Too raw, too urban, too audacious, too rebellious, too cocky. I didn’t fit in with the polo shirt, khaki pants manager crew, nor did I fit in with the folks on the manufacturing floor who’d been working at P&G longer than I’d been alive.
I felt angry and discouraged, and wondered if I could ever “be myself.” And if I did, where would it lead me?
That same year, I heard about another skinny kid with a funny name, a guy who had lit up the stage at the Democratic National Convention. And so, Senator Obama, I read your book, Dreams From My Father. I learned about an emerging leader who also struggled with a lack of identity for most of his youth. You were also frustrated with society’s inequities, like unequal rights, generational poverty, and oppressed voices. And like me, you felt pressure to fit in and collect the comfortable paycheck, even though your heart and mind said that you should commit yourself to something greater.
Your story emboldened me. As you started to make a name for yourself on the national stage, I embarked on the social impact stage. I discovered a passion for helping people to use their voices and action for positive change, and channeled that fire toward organizing charity events and employee giving & volunteerism campaigns. Finally, I was learning who I am, and just as importantly, the role that I need to play in this world.
In late 2006, we finally met at a rally. The vision you shared – your audacious hope – was not only inspiring, but seemed to echo the voices within myself. A belief in opportunity, interdependency, and giving people a fair shot. As I stepped more into the world of social impact, I discovered success and more fuel for the fire. It seemed like both of us were just getting started.
After that rally, I wrote you a letter. I wanted you to know how much I appreciated seeing another skinny kid with a funny name in a position of leadership. Looking forward, I warned you against hyperpartisanship. And for the long run, I implored you to run for President.
Weeks later, you wrote me back. You thanked me for the support, acknowledged your challenges in operating in a polarized political environment, and expressed gratitude for my wishes for your future. From there, neither one of us would look back.
I campaigned like crazy for you in 2007 and 2008. Rallies, phone calls, canvassing, fundraisers, and more. This work told me that social impact couldn’t be a side gig for me – it needed to be my purpose. The drive to form a “more perfect union” woke me up like an alarm clock pumped through a stadium. So in mid-2008, I left behind a comfortable paycheck at Procter & Gamble to join Teach For America.
Shaking up the status quo in pursuit of social justice would be my life.
Months later, on November 4th, 2008, you became President. But – I one-upped you. Because on that same night, I proposed to my future wife. Her response was something along the lines of, “Yes We Can.”
Now here we are. Not always agreeing, and carrying our share of shortcomings with programs and campaigns. Rejected more times than we can count. Yet through it all, I could look to that other skinny kid with a funny name to speak to me. To hear me, to understand me.
You’ve shown me how to empathize and listen when it’s easier to argue. You’ve given me a blueprint on inspiring, organizing, and mobilizing. You’ve fortified my commitment to the journey of social justice, even with all of its fits and starts, the steps forward and steps backward. You’ve represented me – a citizen, an optimist, an outsider, a person who is fired up and still ready to go.
President Obama, I thank you. Not only for the past, but for the future. Because when I’ve seen you, I’ve seen myself. With that clarity, with that pride, can envision a brighter tomorrow. A tomorrow with greater purpose and greater success, for myself and hopefully the people that I’ll have the benefit to help.
Perhaps one day, we’ll talk about this journey on the golf course or the basketball court, a couple places where both of us find refuge. We could vent a little bit, crack some jokes, and share battle stories. Till then, I know you’ll keep the fight for justice alive. You’ll continue to set an example.